Kent Collins - First Time For Sister

Billie knew that her argument was gone. She really didn't have much of one anyway, and hearing Hanson kid around reminded her that it wasn't like they were complete strangers. Their families had lived up in the hills for years and not more than a middlin' walk between them.

Hanson pushed the door open then as if he knew she was going to get in and she did, clambering up beside him and pulling it shut behind her.

He started the old truck smoothly and let it grind along in second gear so the bumps wouldn't jolt them around too much.

"You like to read?" he asked, shooting a quick look at the paperback.

Billie-Ann gave a short nod and kept staring straight ahead. She was afraid to talk much now that they were sitting only a foot or two apart. All she could think of was that morning when Hanson'd been stripped down and shiny with water and she'd been hypnotized by the way his cock had looked.

"I got some books you might dig," he went on. "Maybe we can trade off some."

"Oh, I ain't got all that many," Billie said. She was just dying to look at the crotch of Hanson's jeans. Would his cock be pushing the material up in a great big swollen lump?

The truck swerved in some sand at the shoulder and Hanson brought it back to the middle of the road. It was right then that Billie-Ann let her eyes dart down to the place under Hanson's wide black belt. No, his crotch seemed normal… except maybe for the swell that pushed down a little ways into one leg of his blue jeans. That's where it was, she thought. Just resting down there like a big old bull snake. Billie bit her lip hard and felt her face go crimson. Sure as hell, Hanson had caught her looking! Oh, God, she felt like… like just disappearing down through the floorboard or jumping out the window. And now he was probably smiling. Or getting ready to laugh at such a silly little white girl who couldn't keep her eyes off a black man's cock.

"Hey, you know you sure have got pretty since I been away," Hanson said.

The words shocked her out of her embarrassment… shocked her so much that she stared up at Hanson, hardly believing what she'd heard.

Colored boys just weren't supposed to talk to white girls like that… or at least she'd never known of it before.

"I know you're thinking it ain't my business to tell you that," he said quickly, the faint smile still playing around his lips. "But it seems crazy for me not to say true things just because we's different colors, doesn't it now?" He gave a short laugh and twitched the match in his teeth. "What do you want me to tell you… that you're ugly or something?"

Once again, Hanson had jabbed right through Billie's indignation. She tried to hold on to her defenses for another moment or two, but they dissolved and she found herself smiling. "Thanks for saying so," she said. "For saying that I'm pretty." The words had popped out before she'd had a chance to stop them.

"Look here," Hanson said after a while. "Any time you need a ride into town, I won't mind taking you."

"Oh, I couldn't," Billie said quickly. "I just-"

Hanson waved his hand, nodding. "I know, I know. You don't want to be seen riding with a black buck. But I could let you out just before we got to the highway. Nobody'd know the difference and you could thumb from there."

Billie felt immediately ashamed. Something about Hanson's open, honest way of talking made her feel wicked and cheap and ugly inside. All he wanted to do was he friendly.

"I didn't mean it… quite like that," she said.

"Sure, you did, but that don't bother me none." He gave another easy laugh. "I've driven white chicks all up and down the East Coast, so just 'cause you might be a little funny in the head from living back here in the hills I ain't gonna hold it against you."

Billie was trying to imagine the white girls Hanson was talking about.

What kind of girls were they anyhow? And where would Hanson be driving them?

Billie-Ann was almost getting up enough courage to ask Hanson about the women he knew back East, but her house was already in sight and Hanson was slowing down. She got out of the truck on her side, but an emotion she wasn't used to made her stop. She felt… as if there were more to say.

"Thanks for the ride and all," she said, smiling at him through her long lashes. "If I sounded… mean or anything…"

Hanson grinned and moved the match he was chewing to the other side of his mouth. "Don't bother your head about it." Leisurely, he took in the graceful lines of her childlike body, and Billie could almost feel his eyes touching her every curve and bump. "If you feel like trading some books sometime, I could meet you down at Basset's Pond. You know where that is?"

Billie felt herself go red again and lowered her eyes. "Yeah, I know."

Then she walked quickly away from the truck and up the rock walk that led to the front porch of the house.

In the front room, she slumped into a chair, still clutching the paperback and feeling breathless for some reason. Her stepmother's footsteps coming down the hall made her stiffen.

"What you been doin' out there with that nigger?" Nora asked.

"He gave me a ride home; that's all."

"And what happened to Jed?" Nora was standing in front of her, gnarled hands on her heavy hips. "Ain't he supposed to be your ride to the coop and back on Saturdays?"

"Got tired of waiting for him," Billie lied. "I was walking back and Hanson-"

"Oh, it's Hanson now, is it?" Her stepmother reached out and grabbed her thin arm, fingers digging into the soft flesh until Billie-Ann made a face from the pain. "This morning you leave without doing nary a chore and now you come home sittin' up there in a pickup cab with some uppity nigger boy."

"Nora, you're hurting my arm."

"I'll hurt more than that if I catch you messin' 'round like that again." Nora shoved Billie back, making her fall half-across the sofa.

"We got troubles enough without the whole county talkin' about how trashy you are. Now, get outta my sight. I don't want to see you again till supper."

As soon as Hanson Allen had watched Billie-Ann's slim little bottom disappear through the door and into her house, he wheeled the old pickup around and drove like crazy, cursing himself the whole time. He went on past his father's house and took the turnoff which wound five miles away from town toward the rich delta land of the river.

"Damned white chick," he swore aloud, letting the truck go fast enough to kick up a long rooster tail of dust behind him. He knew how crazy it was to be talking to a white girl around these parts the way he'd talked to Billie-Ann Wheeler. Giving her a ride was bad enough, but then he had to go shooting off his mouth, telling her how pretty she looked and asking her to meet him down by Basset's Pond.

Hanson rubbed his hand over his forehead and wiped the sweat on the leg of his jeans. He didn't really give all that much of a damn about white chicks; it was just that this one seemed to remind him again of… No, that couldn't be his excuse any more. Billie-Ann Wheeler didn't look or talk anything like Pamela Whittier from Boston, Mass. Billie was prettier in her own innocent kind of way.

"Damn it to hell," Hanson growled, remembering her tan, coltish legs, sun-browned almost as dark as Hanson's own skin. He smiled. At least he preferred his white girls tanned.

He looked out the window at a low-flying crop duster, but Billie-Ann's pert profile drifted into his thoughts again: her cute upturned nose, almost Negroid in its shortness. And the freckles on her sunburned forehead. That wispy brown hair… Christ! how he wanted to run his fingers through it.

"And damn my black hide if she wasn't peeking at my cock!" He laughed to hear the words echo in the truck cab. Hanson knew he was goodlooking. Many other girls, white and black, had chased him even begged to share his bed.